


Blood in the Cut

by adelheid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Sex, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Drug Addiction, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jon is also a bit more temperamental, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Roommates, Sansa is bitchy at first, getting revenge on Ramsay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12034941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelheid/pseuds/adelheid
Summary: Modern AU.  He didn't want her in his life. He hadn't spoken to her in years. But he had to pick her up from rehab and take care of her. You don't turn your back on family.





	Blood in the Cut

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this AU in my head for a while, so there you go. I love the idea of grumpy Jon having to slowly come to terms with his feelings for his sister while helping her recover. And I love the idea of Sansa putting up a wall at first, only to slowly let him in. Oh, and sexual tension. Loads of it. I'll try my best to do justice to the trauma aspect of the story too. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

I need noise  
I need the buzz of a sub  
Need the crack of a whip  
Need some blood in the cut  
I need blood in the cut

***

 

“Yeah…she’s my sister. Half-sister. But yeah, we're related.”

What else _could_ he say? It wasn’t like he could deny her existence. He couldn’t turn his back on family.

It was unexpected. He hadn’t spoken to her in over a decade. He’d last seen her at Catelyn’s funeral, but he didn’t try to initiate a conversation because it was _her_ mother who’d died and she looked so _petrified_ with grief that any word from him would have sounded like an insult. Their father’s death had devastated him, but Catelyn Stark had never meant as much to him, and it was pointless to pretend otherwise.      

The rest of the Starks did not fare any better. They always managed to attract tragedy wherever they went. Robb suffered a stroke at the budding age of twenty-six and his bright future in the NFL was abruptly cut short. They said the heartbreak of losing her son was what eventually killed Catelyn too. Arya left home at sixteen to travel the world and was now somewhere in Nepal, having severed contact with her family completely. She only sent Jon the occasional postcard. Oftentimes, he wondered if she was still alive. Bran got paralyzed from the neck down during a contracting job and was now moving around in a wheelchair, living in a commune with a bunch of hippies in Colorado. Sansa was a drug addict with a long list of abusive ex-boyfriends. Rickon dropped out of school, gambled his share of the family money in a series of months and relocated to Australia. He was a ‘lifestyle’ vlogger now with a different name and a whole new identity. He never answered family calls and refused to respond to “Rickon.” He was Ray now. 

So yes, it fell to Jon to pick up his sister from rehab. He was the only one left who could. The one who had managed to stay away from trouble and lead a relatively normal life. But then, he wasn’t really a Stark, so he was spared the freakish tragedy that comes with the weathered name.  

Until now.

Jon put down the phone and ran both hands over his face.

The last goddamn thing he wanted was to take care of his coked up sister.

But when did he ever get what he wanted?

 

 

She was supposedly sober now, but Sansa Stark looked anything but. Truth be told, she looked like a ghost. If you breathed too hard in her direction she might crumble to dust. The only thing that had remained the same was her vibrant red hair. It was thinned out and fried at the ends, but the color was largely unaltered. It gave her a strange aura. Given her pallor, it almost looked like her head was bleeding.

Jon tried not to think about that.

She was shivering in her thin jacket as she dragged her feet towards the parking lot, fingers in her mouth, biting down on the nails compulsively. Jon didn’t know if he should take her arm and offer her his coat. She seemed aloof, like she didn’t want him near her. She didn’t have much of a reaction when he stepped into the clinic that morning to sign her release forms. And she said absolutely nothing as he led her to his car.

He hoisted her small luggage in the trunk. She’d come out of there with very few possessions which made him wonder. 

Jon turned up the radiator in the car and grabbed a paper bag from the backseat.

“Here, I got you some food.”

Sansa was staring out the window, head propped in her hand, entirely dismissive. “Thanks.”

The way she said it sounded like she never wanted to eat again. Jon’s shoulders sagged. _Here we go_.

“Well, maybe later,” he muttered and started the car. As he drove away from the reputable Eyrie Rehab Center he kept wondering what he was going to do for the following months. It was clear from one glance that Sansa was not yet fit to join normal society. It would be a while before she could get a job and move on with her life.

_Fuck._

He was caught up in these grim thoughts and didn’t notice Sansa had propped up her legs on the dashboard. She was wearing a pair of ratty flat shoes with some kind of rhinestone print.

“Could you not do that, please?”

"Do what?" 

"Your feet." 

"Does it bother you?" she asked indifferently. 

He clenched his hand on the steering wheel. "I wouldn't ask if it didn't." 

It took her a few moments to retract her legs. 

“ _Sorry_.”

Her apology sounded sarcastic more than anything. Jon inhaled deeply. He needed to be the bigger person here. Sansa was probably not thrilled about him being the one to pick her up. 

“I have to get back to work tonight,” he began tensely. “Are you going to be okay on your own?”

Sansa nodded wanly, hands folded over her chest.

“Good. I’ll be locking you in until I come back.”

This definitely caught her attention. “ _What_?”

“Just a small precaution, your handler at the center said you should not be out by yourself the first few weeks –”

“Are you _serious_? You’re locking me up like a prisoner?”

“That’s not what –”

“Might as well jump out of the car and go back to rehab,” she snapped bitterly, pulling her legs to her chest. Her shoes were staining the seat.  

Jon gritted his teeth and tried to remember that she was in a fragile state and they hadn’t talked in ten years. She was a teenager then…and maybe she hadn’t outgrown that phase yet.

“Look, are you planning on going out somewhere tonight?” he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Sansa shook her head, as if the question didn’t matter. “That’s not the point, _Jon_. The point is I should have my freedom.”

He flinched at the use of his name. He didn’t like the way it sounded on her lips. He was just trying to do the responsible thing here. Why was it so hard to understand? “You will have your full freedom once you’re recovered.”

She laughed bitterly. “That’s what rehab was for.”

“Recovery is a long and complicated process and it requires time –”

“Oh, _please_ don’t quote me the handbook. You’re just afraid I’ll go out and get wasted.”

Jon decided to go with the truth and not spare her feelings anymore. “Yes, actually. I don’t exactly trust you right now.”

His sister looked at him disparagingly, but he stubbornly kept his eyes on the road.

“Looks like you haven’t changed _one_ bit,” she remarked acidly and did not speak to him again for the rest of the ride.

 

 

She’d partially lied. He _had_ changed in some ways. He didn’t look like he was in a grunge band anymore. He’d filled out a bit and started shaving more often. He still had plenty of facial hair, because he’d never wanted to look groomed and clean-shaven like the rest of her brothers. But he was more relaxed about it, by the looks of it. He hadn’t given up his shaggy curls, but they were now pulled back in a bun which made him look halfway decent.

But the essential things were the same. He was still the holier-than-thou Jon she’d always known. The _responsible_ kid of the bunch, the one who never got into trouble, who always did the right thing, who always washed the dishes and cleaned up after himself. The one who was allowed to judge the rest of them because _he_ wasn’t a fuck-up. The worst thing you could say about Jon was that he had a habit of brooding too much, but people just took that as the mark of a deep thinker.  Sansa knew better. He might have put on the front of a modest young man, but secretly, Jon thought he was better than all of them.

 

 

Jon tried not to think about what she’d said.

_Looks like you haven’t changed one bit._

It would've played into her hand if he really broke down this statement. She wanted him to lose his temper, and he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.

He opened the door to his small apartment, which would now become regrettably  _smaller_ , and let her in.

Sansa discarded her shoes on his living room carpet (he really needed to have a talk with her about that) and went straight for the kitchen.

“I’m dying of thirst.”

Jon was in the process of removing his coat, but he rushed in after her, not knowing what to expect.

She was rummaging through his fridge with great purpose. She finally pulled out a bottle of water.

Jon visibly sighed with relief.

His sister chuckled. “Don’t worry, your lightweight beers are safe. I won’t touch them.”

He suddenly realized leaving her alone in the house was not such a hot idea. She could get into his medicine cabinet or drink the medicinal alcohol. Not to mention, the knife drawer was right _there_.

Sansa was able to read his thoughts easily; he didn’t have the best poker face in town.

“You have to childproof the place,” she said, taking a sip of water. “Put locks on all the cabinets. That’s what they do with addicts. Guess you didn’t read the _whole_ handbook.”

Jon looked away, ashamed. She’d been in his life for less than an hour and she was already getting the upper hand.

Two red spots appeared on his cheeks. Sansa had to admit she enjoyed getting him flustered.

“So…while you plan that strategic move, I’ll go take a shower. I smell like hospital.”

Jon was about to say they should set some few ground rules first, but she seemed to have other ideas. She was already acting like the place was hers. He pinched the bridge of his nose. But he went after her. He had to clear the bathroom of any razors.

 

 

“What if I want to shave?” she asked him archly.

 Jon leaned against the sink. He didn’t want to have this conversation this early. Frankly, he _never_ wanted to breach this topic if he could help it.

But he couldn’t help it.

“It said in your file that you would sometimes resort to self-harm.”

“I’m glad you read it. Was it entertaining?”

“Sansa.” His tone was a silent warning not to start shit with him, not on her first day at least.

“No, please, I want to know your opinion,” she drawled, leaning against the bathroom door, blocking the exit.

Suddenly, the space was too small for this confrontation. And she looked so defensive, as if at any moment he might try to attack her. Which was _insane_. If anything, _she_ was the one who might try violence on him.

_No, stop it. Stop thinking like that._  They were family, whatever that meant. 

Jon lowered his eyes and stared at the green tiled floor. “My opinion is you should not shave tonight.”

“Oh, _okay_. So I’ll only shave when you give me permission. Maybe you should stand behind the shower curtain just in case.”

Jon counted back from ten. He gripped the edge of the sink. Couldn’t they be civil for one fucking night?

_It’s not just one night. It’s God knows how many months._

“I’m only trying to help, Sansa,” he said at length, though his words sounded perfunctory to his ears. The truth was he just wanted to get out of the house and go to work and not have to deal with this right now.

Sansa smiled sweetly, and it looked ghastly. “Thanks, I _really_ appreciate it.”

 

 

He stood outside the bathroom, listening to his sister taking a shower. He felt like an idiot, but he couldn’t take any chances.  Of course, she could devise a hundred ways to hurt herself and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. He thought about maybe taking the night off from work, but what would he do the rest of the week? Would he just quit his job and stand vigil for his troubled sister? He had expected some friction from her, but he had thought rehab would do her good. He had thought she would be, if not her old self, at least a convincing replica. But she was evidently not as well as he’d hoped.

He was woefully unprepared for whatever was ahead of him. He should have gotten more information, should have sought more advice before taking on this burden.

But she was here now and he couldn’t change that.

 

 

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmured guiltily, not looking her in the eye.

Sansa was wrapped up in his bathrobe, sitting in front of the TV stonily, her wet hair dripping on his couch.

“Have a great night,” she said tersely.

Jon sighed. “There’s food’s in the fridge. And my number is –”

“Above the stove, yeah, got it.”

He wanted to say, _please be okay, please don’t do anything stupid,_ but she wouldn’t listen to him anyway. Even as kids, she’d never put much stock in his words.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” he added, not knowing what else to say.

“Can’t wait,” was her sardonic reply.

When he turned the key and felt the lock click, he felt both better and worse.

 

 

Sam brought over two coffees, one black and one with cream.

“Gilly keeps telling me to cut back on the dairy, but she doesn’t understand this stuff actually keeps me on my feet,” he joked, sitting down next to his partner.

“Thanks,” he muttered, clenching the cup a little too keenly.

“Everything all right? You seem off tonight.”

“Just tired from the Frey gig.” It wasn’t a lie exactly. It had been a lucrative job, but the clients had been the “hard to please” type. Most of them were. It was like taking care of moody children.  

Jon worked for the Night’s Watch, one of the best security companies in the country. They offered state-of-the-art protection and surveillance, and they were also extremely discreet with their clientele, which was why they were so appreciated. Jon had been the bodyguard of enough celebrities, media moguls and business magnates for it to get old.  He would rather they got smaller jobs with less important people. 

“Oh God yeah, that was torture,” Sam agreed. “I hope they were unhappy with our service so they don't call us back. I don’t want to patrol the Twins ever again.”

“You and me both.”

“Are you sure it’s just the job, though?”

Jon shrugged. Sam was too perceptive for his own good. “My sister’s also in town.”

“Ooh, which one? The one with the shaved head who likes to hike a lot?”

Jon smiled sadly. “I wish.”

“So is it…Sandra then?”

“ _Sansa_.”

“Ah. You’re not excited to see her.”

Jon wasn’t about to tell him she was a former drug addict who needed to be monitored and taken care of by a family member and he was the only one available. It sounded pathetic. And he had some pride left in him.

“We were never that close, so we don’t have much to talk about.”

“Well, people change. It’s been a few years, right? Maybe you and her will have a new perspective on things.”

“I doubt it. The Starks are not big on moving on.”

Sam frowned. “You’ve just got to be the bigger person then.”

_I’m trying, Sam. I'm really trying._

His friend patted him on the back. “Cheer up. She won’t be staying forever.”

Jon laughed. If only he knew. He honestly couldn’t say _when_ he’d be rid of her.

He realized, suddenly, that this was just another job. It fit the profile. She was another difficult client he’d have to take care of. And he was good at that, wasn’t he?

_God, who am I kidding?_

This would be his toughest job yet.


End file.
